


Six Degrees of Separation

by DeathShipper, mikethelipe



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, Gay Panic, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, La casa de papel - Freeform, M/M, Martin deserved Better, Martin is sad sometimes, Unrequited Love, but not really so, me too so i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathShipper/pseuds/DeathShipper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikethelipe/pseuds/mikethelipe
Summary: "First, you think the worst is a broken heartWhat's gonna kill you is the second partAnd the third, Is when your world splits down the middleAnd fourth, you're gonna think that you fixed yourselfFifth, you see 'em out with someone elseAnd the sixth, is when you admit that you may have fucked up a little"Or: Martín passing through the 6 degrees.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Six Degrees of Separation

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, i'm back again! not smut today, but i promise that in the near future
> 
> this is based on the song "Six Degrees of Separation" by The Script, listen to the song because it's amazing. anyway, I hope you enjoy the reading! comments will be really appreciate here..
> 
> again, that would not be possible without my translator angel @DeathShipper so thanks again, ly
> 
> para os leitores em português, isso provavelmente estara no spirit em breve, minha conta la é o mesmo nome dessa aqui :)

**_First, you think the worst is a broken heart_ **

“I love you Martín, but my brother is right, we need to part ways. We must abandon the plan.”

_ Leave the plan?  _ Martín thought.

Martín was a poet. But not the classic way. He hadn’t written long and sophisticated sentences to declare his love to someone. He hadn’t rhymed or written extensive letters. Instead, he worked on a plan. A plan that became the work of his life. A plan so grand, so beautiful and so great. The plan was his poem. His unconventional gift to his greatest love, the only man he had ever loved. 

He couldn’t understand. He had worked with such love and diligence in his plan,  _ their _ plan.  _ And to give it up? _

He could only mutter something about Sergio and his plan to the Royal Mint, but that wasn’t what he really wanted to say to Andrés. What were paper bills against 90 tons of pure gold? If Martín could he would bring all the jewels in the world to Andrés because none of them would ever shine as bright as Andrés did; wasn’t that enough? 

“You are clinging to something that doesn’t exist and never will. I have to leave you. For love. For fraternity, for the bond we share.”

If they had a bond, why was he leaving? Why was Andrés’ tone so hard, as if he wanted to cut Martín in half?

“Now leave and heal the wound. Sometimes distance is the only way to find peace.”

A tear rolled down Martín’s cheek. He wanted to say Andrés was his peace, he didn’t.

“Farewell, my friend. I am sure that, one way or another, time will bring us together again.”

And so he walked away, as if it were nothing. As if they hadn’t spent ten years together. As if the plan weren’t  _ theirs,  _ just Martín’s. The engineer had never asked Andrés to love him back; he had always contented himself in only admiring Andrés and being there for him. God, he had even attended all of Andrés’ weddings. And the fact Andrés preferred to leave instead of sharing the same space as him, even with Martín not asking anything in return, was simply too much.

**_What's gonna kill you is the second part_ **

He continues walking and Martín hears him leave through the door and he realizes he needs to leave too. He looks around; this place is Martín’s home –  _ Andrés’ home  _ (had it ever been theirs, one day?) – and he starts to wonder where he’ll go. 

_ Where do you go when you don’t have something to go back to?  _ He thought.

Andrés had always been his world. To Martín, life was like a miniature solar system, Andrés was the Sun and Martín was the Earth (in this moment he felt small like the moon). Always orbiting around Andrés. 

And when you lose your center, what do you have to do then? 

He tried to remember something before Andrés, a tiny detail even. He searched, finding screams, beatings, despair. Remembered locking himself in a small cupboard while he heard his mother screaming. Remembered a funeral. Remembered the necessity, of having to steal. Remembered some strange friend saying he knew someone experienced. And after that, he remembered only Andrés. Coincidently, after Andrés, everything seemed well. Why now everything simply seemed the same?

God, he didn’t even have a house. In truth, he didn’t remember the last time he lived alone. He had some money in store, but how would he steal again without his partner to help? 

Martín was alone. Blinking, he realized he had lost everything the moment Andrés walked out that door.

**_And the third, Is when your world splits down the middle_ **

Martín couldn’t see anything anymore, his eyes were cloudy and he felt blinded. He walked to desk he was sitting at earlier seeking support, his notebook filled with blueprints of the Bank of Spain, with the plan he had crafted for  _ him _ . He tore out the first page, the one he had been improving when Andrés had asked Martín’s opinion about his outfit. 

And he continued, each page remembering him of another moment.

A drawing of a safe, filled with calculations of how they would go in and out without drowning. The idea had occurred to him one late night. He had woken up eager, running to Andres’ room smiling to tell him his plan, showing his friend his calculations, satisfied with his private poem. Torn in half.

A list of what they would need, made while they had breakfast. Despite neither of them being adept of such clichés, they always made a point to sit together to eat. Ripped to shreds.

He looked at a drawing he had made of Andrés. His friend had always had a talent to draw, a true lover of art. One day, in good fun, Andrés had asked him to try and draw him and they both laughed. But Martín did try, in his own way. He looked at the page in front of him, rubbing his eyes to try and see better. The eyes, the mouth, the smile, the hair. Everything in Andrés was perfect. A sob escaped his lips before he could rip the page in unrecognizable pieces. 

He threw the notebook on the floor and glanced at the bottle he had offered Andrés. If that goddamned idiot had accepted, everything would still be well. He picked it up and threw it on the other side of the room, the shards went flying everywhere. In that moment, Martín felt like that: in pieces.

**_And fourth, you're gonna think that you fixed yourself_ **

He left the monastery, just like Andrés wanted, before dawn even. He would never know if his friend had come back home on the next day or if he had gone to live with Tatiana. 

He negotiated a small apartment that was not so bad, settling down before deciding what he would really do now. A party was hosted in front of his small building that day, and he knew the price had been low because of the frequent noise. Without knowing exactly why, he went down to check out the party.

He sees a handsome man on the bar. Martín smiles at him, and the man smiles back.

As fast as it had started, the man’s mouth is on Martín’s, hot, wet and willing. And Martín lets go and lets it happen, his hands scratching and settling somewhat clumsily on the man’s shoulders, his fingers digging deep. He kisses hard and wild, and Martín doesn’t care, because he is drunk and nothing matters.

The man slides his leg between Martín’s like they had done it a thousand times before, and presses him gently against the wall. Martín whimpers and holds on tighter.  _ Andrés _ , he thinks furiously.  _ Por favor _ . And he cries. 

They kiss until they taste the salt of Martín’s tears, and the man draws back, shaking his head.

“You don’t want this.” He says.

“I know.” Martín answers, and leans in to kiss him again, but the man places a hand in his chest, gently, to keep him away. His other hand reaches up to clear the tears form Martín’s face.

“No,” The man says. “Not like this, not with me.”

Martín closes his eyes in shame.

_ Not with you _ , he thinks. 

The next night, he tries again.

In the morning, Martín woke up with a virtual stranger in his bed and kicked him out minutes later. And in the next morning too. And the next. And the next. And the next. 

He christened it as “boom, boom, ciao”. He went down to the party, looked at some good looking man in the bar, threw his most handsome smile and there, done. During sex, it wasn’t necessary to ask for anything else, only lust. He didn’t kiss any of them, didn’t accept cuddles after and didn’t exchange vows of love. It was just sex, until he was too tired to keep his eyes open. And on the next day he gave only a goodbye, without a single trace of sadness or pain. Never with the same person twice. Boom, Boom, Ciao.

And he felt good. It was like being in control. He always went to bed with who he wanted, it only took a smile. Boom. The other man smiled back, Martín went up with him and made him cum. Boom. He woke up, no second rounds, and sent the stranger away. Ciao.

**_Fifth, you see 'em out with someone else_ **

After a few months, Martín managed to buy a phone. It had been a while since he had had one, since the only person he liked to talk to was always at his side.

He had never been one to like social networks also, but he did have a Facebook. For some reason that even he didn’t know, he downloaded the app again in his phone and saw the latest publications of the only friends he had added: Sergio, Marseille and Bogotá. Andrés had never had social media because he thought it was tacky, but Martín was happy with that, because he didn’t want to see photos of his once friend.

But he couldn’t avoid it, anyway. Marseille had just posted a picture with Andrés and Tatiana, the description only an emoji, since he had always been a man of few words. Martín opened the photo, zooming in to analyze Andrés.

He looked happy. He had a hand on his wife’s hip and the other on Marseille’s shoulders, wearing that smile that could easily start and end wars. His eyes as vibrant as ever. He didn’t look different. 

Did he miss Martín? Did he even think of Martín?  _ You’ll be thinking of me, but I won’t be thinking of you _ , he had said.

**_And the sixth, is when you admit that you may have fucked up a little_ **

Some more months after, Martín heard about the break in of the Royal Mint of Spain. How could he not come upon it? Sergio was right in insisting so much on the plan, the idea was extraordinary. During the entire day, the media transmitted newscasts about the heist and Martín wouldn’t admit it to save his life, but he watched every single one of them. When reporters entered the Mint with robbers’ authorization, Martín saw Andrés’ interview. He looked so different, yet the same and still so beautiful. The same voice, the same eyes, the same determination on his voice, the same strength. But still so distant.

On the day of their escape, Martín didn’t mean to watch. The media would only show the police going in and finding nothing, why bother? They would all be gone.

But he simply turned on the TV that day, maybe because he didn’t have anything else to do; his life still remained being accompany Andrés. 

And so he saw it.

“The robbers escaped through a tunnel and the police couldn’t stop them, but all of the hostages were saved. The gang’s leader that has been identified as Andrés de Fonollosa, aka Berlin, was shot by the police while the others escaped.”

Martín’s eyes widened and he got up, walking in front of the TV. The reporter spoke and, behind her, he could see a stretcher carrying a covered body. He covered his mouth with his hand, without believing what he was seeing.

“His death was confirmed as blood loss.”

His vision went unfocused, his head working a thousand miles per hour.  _ Andrés. Andrés. Andrés. Andrés. Andrés. Andrés. _

In the past, his mother had taught him a trick. If he repeated the same word over and over it would lose its meaning.

“The police say the time Fonollosa spent exchanging bullets with the police was necessary for the others to escape.”

_ Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. _

“The so called Berlin would have stayed behind for the others to get to the tunnel. The police-“

Martín pushed the TV, knocking it to the ground. He saw the screen shatter on the floor but he couldn’t care less. He grabbed a bottle and drank, trying to feel something other than that horrible feeling inside him. 

_ Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.  _

The books from the shelves were now all on the floor, broken bottles and torn pages. Why had he left?  _ Why had he try to be a stupid hero?  _

_ Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.  _

_ It’s my fault,  _ he thought. If he hadn’t fallen in love with Andrés, he would have never left and they would have 90 tons of gold, rich and happy. If he had managed to stop him from leaving, maybe he would still be alive. If he had gone with, he could have stayed and saved Andrés, couldn’t he? 

He felt the anger on himself grow inside him, screaming, making itself be heard. His nails scratched his arms, stomach, face, everything he could reach. He cried and cried, his mind a meaningless maelstrom.

_ Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life.  _

He looked at an untouched bow in his set of drawers, his mind suddenly silent. He walked hurriedly to it, opening and finding his old revolver. 

The gun shook in Martín’s hands while he examined it closely. His fingers gripped the protection on the trigger. Pulling it backwards, Martín cocked the gun. He took it to his temple, feeling the cold metal against his skin. 

His breath caught, his heart beating faster than he knew it could be possible. His head throbbing while he pushed the gun harder on his temple, the metal biting the skin. 

He let his eyes close when his finger found the trigger. He breathed deeply and steadied himself. 

_ Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death.  _

A tear started to fall, then another and another. Martín’s vision blurred with the tears and he couldn’t see anything anymore. He opened his hand and the gun fell with a deaf thud, a secondary sound against the loud sobs of the engineer. 

_ Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. _

And nothing at all made sense now.


End file.
